Learning to Go On
by awilliamsbbc.98
Summary: The second time the Pevensies are torn away from everything they know it should be easier. It isn't. They all have to readjust; they are kings and queens no longer, and for Edmund going back to who he was before Narnia is not an easy thing to face. However, in the end Peter may be the one to forget who he became in Narnia. Not noticeably AU. NOW REVISED.
1. Going Back

**Um...hello :-) So, I posted this story ages ago at the beginning of summer and wrote it even longer ago, back when I was still in high school. I am afraid my inexperience as a writer showed terribly. I was reading over this and realised how annoyed I was with the overall quality and decided to revise-then I revised a second time. This is still technically the same story, but it has been majorly revised (twice) and edited. Hopefully it is better!**

 _June, 1941-August, 1941_

Fifteen years as kings and queens, and it was over in a moment with the Macready scolding them for disturbing the Professor. Edmund still couldn't quite comprehend how such a thing could have happened. Time could not simply unwind; could it? Even if it could, surely that was not what had happened now. It could not be, for he still remembered everything; battles won and lost, the faces of friends and foes alike, celebrations and funerals, and the brilliant light of a warm sun that seemed so much closer and younger than the pale light that greeted them at the Professor's.

 _It simply isn't fair,_ he reflected as he wandered aimlessly through the empty rooms and dusty hallways of the grand old house-it reminded him irrepressibly of Cair Paravel even in its abject silence. He had spent fifteen years in Narnia learning just how unfair life could be at times, but the unfailing sense of justice he possessed had never allowed him to stop questioning the world's injustices.

 _Life ought to be fair, or at the very least, a good deal more fair than it is. For everything to go back to the way it was-it simply isn't right._ But, if he was being entirely honest with himself it wasn't the injustice of the situation that troubled him most-it was the memory of what had been before Narnia and what might yet be again. If he was being entirely truthful, which he had once promised himself he would try to be whenever possible, then he would have to admit how afraid he really was of that.

 _I'm afraid of who I was before Narnia,_ he conceded silently, finding refuge in one of the Professor's many libraries. He could think more clearly surrounded by books and knew that they would keep his secrets. Besides, before he had never bothered with exploring the book-lined rooms. Here there were no ghosts of harsh words or shadows of spiteful actions to haunt him. The same could not be said for the rest of the house; everywhere he turned there was something to remind him of the hateful child he had been, and who he now feared he would return to being.

 _Fifteen years; fifteen years of laughter and friendship and learning how to be the person I want to be. Now what?_ He scowled and shook his head, realising belatedly that he was dangerously close to feeling sorry for himself. To him, this was one more sign that he was inevitably falling back into his old ways.

 _What's next; shouting at Peter, making fun of Lucy, unraveling Susan's knitting?_ None of those things sounded particularly appealing, but the list served to remind Edmund that he was not the only one suffering. He was not alone in feeling the strangeness of losing so much time, so many years, a whole world, and the closeness the four of them had gained to each other in Narnia.

The change in Peter was perhaps the most pronounced, and it worried Edmund. His brother, usually so confident and well at ease, had become increasingly silent and sullen since their return. It was easy, at least for Edmund who had grown to understand him so well, to deduce the reason for this change. Peter had been the High King, his word had been law, and Narnia had been his to command; in England that could not have been further from the truth. Peter no longer had the authority to choose his own path, let alone decide the fate of his country, and Edmund knew he was struggling to accept his vastly altered circumstances.

He had heard the Macready whispering to the Professor about how arrogant the eldest child suddenly was, and it had been with difficulty that had resisted correcting her sharply-it was no longer his place to defend Peter. The fact remained, however, that Peter was not arrogant. He was simply the High King, a ruler and warrior whose pride had been well founded.

 _I do_ want _to help him,_ Edmund acknowledged miserably, wishing that books could talk to offer him advice. But how could he help now? He was no longer King Edmund the Just, High King Peter's most trusted adviser. Now he was just Edmund, and much closer to being Edmund the Traitor than Edmund the King.

"No," he said aloud, though only the books were there to hear him. "Peter has to learn how to go back to who he was before, no matter the pain it causes him." The books remained silent, and Edmund wondered briefly if he had really been talking about Peter at all.

Then there was Susan; she seemed to have retained something of her adult grace, but it seemed strange and out of place in England. The Macready often complained loudly that she was "putting on airs", "trying too hard to be a grownup", and had assured the Professor that it simply wasn't "proper". The Professor, for his part, had regarded her mildly from above the bowl of his pipe and said nothing-though Edmund, who had been watching the exchange from his seat near the fire, thought the elderly man seemed rather more annoyed with his housekeeper than with Susan's reported strangeness.

When Edmund had cautiously inquired if she was alright, Susan had shrugged and done her best to brush the question aside. Despite her avoidance and denial, the pain of her loss was clearly visible in the dark circles beneath her eyes that spoke of tears and sleepless nights. But what could he say to ease her troubles? He was only her beastly younger brother now; more likely to laugh at her weakness than to offer comfort. So, he said nothing, and Susan did not ask for his aid.

"It wouldn't be particularly helpful of me anyway," he said, once again seeming to address the silent, dust-covered books, "to tell her she has to go back to being a school girl when she was once a queen whose beauty was famed through every kingdom." The books still offered no insight, and he had not expected them to.

Lucy seemed the least effected of them all, but Edmund knew her pain was the deepest. She smiled and laughed and brought light to everyone, just as she always had-not even the Macready could find fault with her-but he saw the sorrow in her eyes which the smiles and laughter never reached. She had not only lost a land, a kingdom, and a crown; she had lost Aslan, and Edmund knew that was worse.

When she thought no one was watching she would grow silent and withdrawn as she turned towards the East, eyes filling with unshed tears. But there was no Golden Roar, no familiar Voice to wake her from her shadowed dreams. Edmund could only watch distantly, though he shared her grief. But how could he tell her that now? In Narnia they were the best of friends; they shared their secrets, their joy, and their pain, but here he was only her cruel and mocking older brother. He was careful to make sure he no longer mocked her, but he could not find the strength to comfort her either.

"She has it the worst," he informed the books. "She was the one who knew Aslan best, and now He's gone. She has to look for Him all over again, and when she can't find Him here she'll simply have to go back to living without Him." The books remained stubbornly silent.

In the weeks that followed, before they left the Professor's to return home, he watched them all in silent regret-his sisters and his brother. They had been his friends once, but here-now-he was not worthy of them. He remembered everything from Narnia, how he had saved them, protected them, nearly died for them, and they for him, but most of all he remembered how he had betrayed them.

Time could not simply unwind, yet somehow it had. His life had spiraled backwards, out of control, until he was once again the same brother who would betray them, taunt them, and shut them out.

It did not occur to Edmund to think his own path was the most difficult. He did not consider, as perhaps he ought to have done, the possibility that this simple fact proved how much he really had changed. All he knew was that he could not risk endangering them again. He must refuse to allow for the possibilty of betraying them, as he once had, and so he quietly withdrew.

"I have to go back too," he informed his reflection in the train window as they returned to London in time for school to start again. "But, if I am to go back to being a traitor, I must do it alone." His too young reflection offered him no contradiction.

* * *

Peter acknowledged himself to be lost, adrift in a familiar world suddenly made alien, but it was not that which troubled him most. True, he found it nearly impossible to accept that he must now follow orders, rather than giving them, and he knew he now seemed arrogant to those around him. But, regardless of his own uncertainty and loss, it was the sadness reflected in the eyes of his family that made their return from Narnia most unbearable.

Lucy's silent tears clawed at his already shaken faith until his trust and belief in Aslan threatened to crumble entirely. Susan's weary sorrow made him want to shout and curse against the One who had sent them so summarily from their home with no warning, and no preparation for the strangeness that would greet them in England. These, he felt, he would have been able to bear, had it not been for Edmund.

The brother, friend, and steadfast companion he had gained in the fifteen years they had spent as kings had vanished nearly as suddenly as Narnia itself. In his place was a far too quiet, far too withdrawn, shadow of his brother, and-if Edmund was no longer sullen as he had been before Narnia- the the silent guilt that clung to him like a shroud was far worse.

By the time they returned to London, three weeks before the start of fall term, Edmund had retreated so far into himself that Peter began to doubt his ability to bring him back. He seemed more a stranger than a brother, more distant now than he had ever been-even so many years ago, when they had first come to the Professor's. No amount of carefully phrased questions, old jokes they had shared in Narnia, or exasperated shows of temper on Peter's part seemed able to shift the wall Edmund had built between them.

Peter was at last forced to admit that he had no idea how to help. Edmund had never been one to cry or give in to violent displays of temper, seemed even less inclined to do so since their return, and-if past experience was anything indication-Edmund would continue brooding until something happened to shock him back to his senses. What would be most effective in accomplishing this dubiously feasible task however, Peter could not begin to guess. It wasn't as if England possessed the equivalent of a ruthless Centaur general-who never hesitated to knock Edmund soundly over the head when he was being particularly foolish.

 _We all lost Narnia,_ Peter thought sadly, watching his brother stare distractedly out at the passing countryside, and trying not to wonder what had become of their home now that they were gone. _But now, I'm losing my best friend as well._ It wasn't fair, and more than that, it hurt terribly.

Peter knew his brother too well to doubt the reason behind his suddenly withdrawn nature, but that scarcely made it more bearable. They had all found themselves right back where they had started, and he knew, that for Edmund especially, where he had started was not somewhere he wanted to return. In his mind, he would be once again hovering on the brink of betraying his family.

 _Why can't he see how much he's changed?_ Peter wondered, pretending to focus on reading his book. _Everyone else can; even the Macready._ Despite his determined display of interest in the book, he did not miss hearing his brother's nearly inaudible words-which seemed to be directed at his own reflection.

"I have to go back too," the despair in that simple statement nearly made Peter admit to eavesdropping, but before he could, Edmund continued-sounding painfully determined. "But, if I am to go back to being a traitor, I must do it alone."

 _You won't be alone,_ Peter found himself promising silently, all too aware that he could not now admit to having heard the quiet words. _When you're ready to listen, I'll be here to remind you who you really are._ He sighed and pushed the book away, acknowledging that he would gain nothing by attempting to read in his current state of mind.

 _I just want my brother back._

The first time he had spoken those words Aslan had answered. The price then for granting Peter's wish had been the Lion's blood, and Edmund's own. This time there was no Lion, and Peter found he would not have trusted Him even if he had been present. _It's up to me now._

Peter knew he was no longer a king, but he would always be an elder brother, unwilling to surrender those he loved to the demons of the past. That thought brought him some measure of peace-regardless of how much things had changed that simple fact never would.

 **Hope you enjoyed this revision, the other chapters will be reposted soon as well. Leave me review :-)**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	2. Letting Go

**Continuing my mission to revise and "fix" some of my earlier stories here is the revised second part. I may have still missed a few errors, but hopefully this is a better story now. :-) Still don't own Narnia.**

 _September, 1941-December, 1941_

If possible, everything only deteriorated further when it came time to return to school. Peter pleaded endlessly with their mother, begging her to reconsider and send Edmund back to Hendon House with him, but she remained stubbornly set against that course of action. It was out of the question, she told him firmly, and when he opened his mouth to argue Peter realised his loss of authority fully. It was no longer his place to say where his brother could and could not be sent, and so he reluctantly bit back the words—it wasn't as if he had a choice.

When the Christmas holidays came Peter was nearly frantic. At first, Edmund answered his letters, even though his replies were short and altogether too much like formal reports, but by mid-November even those replies had ceased. The only comfort came from remembering that the Christmas holidays were approaching, and it would be much more difficult for Edmund to avoid him at home.

It was a terrible shock then, when his mother and sisters arrived to collect him from the train station, and Edmund—who should have already been home three days—was not with them.

His mother seemed dangerously close to tears when he asked her where his brother was, and Lucy sobbed outright, burying her head against his shoulder and refusing to be consoled. In the end it was Susan who told him the whole story, and she sounded as frustrated with the situation as Peter was.

It seemed that Edmund had managed to catch a bad cold and had begged the headmaster for permission to stay at the school through the holidays. Though no one doubted that he was actually sick, Peter could see that Susan shared his suspicion that there was more to Edmund's refusal than sickness. If he wanted to come home a _cold_ wouldn't stop him—they both knew from past experience that he would ride through a blizzard while slowly bleeding to death if it meant being with them at Christmas.

Peter wanted desperately to punch something, but he somehow doubted his mother would approve of such violent action—judging from Susan's warning look neither would she. Lucy simply cried and clung to him, refusing to let go even for their mother to comfort her.

 _Edmund, you bloody idiot, why?_ But he knew why. Edmund was following through with his words on the train. He was determined, that if he must go back, he would do so alone. Peter had hoped Edmund would have come to his sense by now, but he realised he should have known better. Still, regardless of whether Edmund believed he as doing the right thing or not, it could not be allowed to continue.

Peter knew he had to go, even if he had to walk. Edmund would be coming home for Christmas and that was final. As it turned out, he didn't have to walk. Their mother might not have fully understood the reason for his urgent request to visit Edmund, but she seemed to understand the necessity, and took him back to the train station without protest.

When he knocked on Edmund's door he thought for a long and terrible moment that his brother wasn't at the school at all. For a panicked heartbeat, Peter entertained the terrifying notion that Edmund was wandering through the snow somewhere—haunted by the Witch's ghost. Then he heard an almost indistinguishable mumble from the other side of the door, and breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

"The door isn't locked, Peter."

In spite of his worry, Peter smiled as he pushed the door open—of course Edmund would know it was him. The smile faded however when he saw how thoroughly miserable his brother looked, huddled in front of the window as he glared down at the snow-covered land.

Not for the first time Peter found himself feeling infinitely grateful that their mother had agreed to let him come alone. She wouldn't understand the conversation they so desperately needed to have; she wouldn't understand why her youngest son was shivering, even though he had wrapped himself in every available blanket. Peter had long since accepted that she might never be able to understand, but he did.

Edmund didn't turn, didn't even look at Peter as he crossed the room to stand beside him at the window. He continued to stare out into the white wasteland, looking far older than he was—at least in England.

"Why didn't you come home?" Peter asked, keeping his voice neutral with effort-Edmund had always been the diplomatic one in Narnia.

"I have a cold."

"The real reason, Ed." Peter found that he was frustrated, despite all his attempts to curb his temper, and clenched his hands into fists at his sides to keep from shaking his brother.

When Edmund finally turned to look at him Peter almost wished he hadn't. His face was pale and dark shadows stood out like bruises under his eyes—eyes that looked far too old and far too haunted for his young face. Peter was painfully reminded of the morning after he had been rescued from the witch.

"You know why; it's going to be Christmas, the same Christmas." He turned back to the window and the snow—as if that settled the matter entirely.

"So you're going to sulk here by yourself?" _You aren't the only stubborn one, dear brother._

"I'm not sulking!" The chair crashed against the floor as Edmund leapt to his feet, face suddenly flushed with anger.

Peter nearly smiled. _It's about bloody time_. Once Edmund started shouting the battle could be considered half won already.

"I'm protecting you; all of you, from me. We're back Peter, do you know what that means? We all have to go back to who we were before. We're not kings and queens anymore, we're just children. That might be okay for you and the girls; you weren't treacherous little beasts! I was—I am."

"Ed-"

"Peter, don't; you can't deny it. I betrayed all of you, and it took years for me to be worthy of being your brother. I've lost those years, and it wouldn't matter, I would spend the same years trying to be worthy again, but I won't have anyone pay that price again. I'm a traitor Peter, but if I don't have anyone to betray then at least that's better for you."

"Let's not forget that I was nearly as much to blame as you were. I treated you terribly, I was unkind and selfish, and—if we're being entirely honest—a complete prat. Do you think I'm still the same as I was?" He set the chair to rights, and Edmund sat down again still refusing to meet his eyes.

"No," he mumbled, barely audible.

"Then we don't have to go back to exactly who we were. We learned and grew in Narnia, maybe we lost the years, but that doesn't mean we have to lose who we became. Come on Eddie, mum will pick us up from the train station, the girls are waiting for you at home, and we miss you. Please come home?" He tried his best to imitate Lucy's incredibly effective pleading expression, and must have succeeded at least to some extent, because Edmund looked nearly ready to give in.

"Do you really think it can be different—even here?" Edmund waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the grey, snow covered grounds beneath the window.

"It already is. Look here Ed, before we went to Narnia you wouldn't have stayed away from home because you were trying to protect us. You wouldn't have worried nearly so much about all this, and you certainly wouldn't have talked to me. You haven't been a traitor in fifteen years—and those years still happened." Peter offered him a hand, and pulled his still reluctant brother to his feet. "Now come on; even if I'm not High King anymore I'm still your older brother. You still have to listen to me."

Edmund grinned impishly, and Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes—he really should have known better. "Peter, when have I ever listened to you?"

"When listening was the best, and most strategic course of action." Peter wasn't entirely willing to let the serious nature of the conversation fade just yet. He knew his brother too well—well enough to know sarcastic humour was Edmund's best defence against admitting how deeply some things still affected him.

"Fair enough," he was surprised when Edmund conceded the point without further argument. "Just promise me one thing; help me remember who I became in Narnia?

Peter nodded, finally allowing himself to feel relieved. It was rare for Edmund to ask for help, but when he did it meant he was ready to accept it—ready to listen. "I will never let you forget, little brother."

" _Younger_ brother," Edmund corrected, scowling—though Peter knew he didn't mind as much as he appeared to—and followed.

* * *

"Mum?" Peter hated the now familiar sensation of nervousness he felt before speaking with his mother. He knew that whatever he asked she had the authority to say no, and there would once more be nothing he could do.

She looked up, slightly distractedly, from the mound of potatoes she was peeling and smiled. "What is it, dear?"

"It's about Edmund."

She paused, knife poised above a potato, and raised her eyebrows. "Nearly everything seems to be about Edmund these days. The girls have already been in here, begging me to send him back to school with you next term. I expect that's what you're on about as well?"

Peter nodded, unsurprised that Lucy and Susan had already preceded his request with their own.

His mother sighed, and returned to peeling the potatoes, frowning in concentration. "I'm inclined to agree that it might be best after all, but what I don't understand is why. Last year the two of you were barely speaking, when you came back from the country everyone seemed terribly worried about him and Edmund was nearly as sullen as ever, and now the three of you have fussing over him all week—like you expect him to vanish any moment."

 _Two of us, at least,_ Peter corrected her silently. Susan and Lucy had been fussing in characteristically concerned manners, but Peter liked to think he had retained enough dignity not to join them. It was no good telling her why the girls would barely let Edmund out of their sight, but he supposed it must be very confusing.

"I really can't explain it, mum-not very well at least, but rather a lot happened in the Country. Things are different now-" he was interrupted when the back door burst open to admit Lucy, red-face and panting, and behind her came a very disreputable looking person-who was nearly entirely covered in snow.

"Edmund?!" His mother sounded nearly as shocked as Peter felt. They both stared at Edmund in open mouthed amazement as both he and Lucy froze guiltily.

Lucy giggled, pulling off her icy mittens and rubbing her hands together for warmth. "Edmund fell into a snowbank," she offered helpfully.

Edmund glared at her, shaking the snow from his hair. "Oh really, Lu? That's what you're calling it these days when you trip me and bury me in snow."

Lucy, still giggling, threw her mittens at him, paused for a heartbeat to drop a quick kiss on their mother's cheek, and ran. Edmund shook his head, glaring after her in mock indignation.

"Children," he grumbled good-naturedly, pulling off his snow-encrusted coat.

Peter stared at him. "You were out in the snow?"

"Obviously." He grinned, seeming not at all bothered, and Peter still couldn't quite believe it.

"Obviously indeed," their mother interjected, shaking her head. "You're tracking it all over the floor."

"Sorry mum, I'll get the mop." Still grinning he hurried off, tracking snow after him. Peter exchanged a surprised look with his mother-though he suspected they were surprised for entirely different reasons.

 _Snow?_ By the time they left Narnia Edmund hadn't exactly hated snow anymore, but he had still been reluctant to venture out into it unless absolutely necessary. Edmund it seemed, was not only ready to listen, but to let go.

"It would seem things have changed," she said quietly, still staring at the doorway her youngest son had vanished through. "He hasn't been that happy to play with Lucy in years, or willing to clean up after himself."

Peter smiled, sensing victory was within his reach. "He's changed, mum, he really has." _Please see how much._

She shook her head still amazed, before turning back to the potatoes with a smile. "I can see that, Peter. I'll speak with the Headmaster at Hendon House tomorrow, and see what I can do about next term."

Peter kissed her on the cheek, wishing he could tell her just how grateful he was. "Thanks mum."

 **The revised third part will follow soon.**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


	3. Holding On

**Here is the edited/revised final part :-)**

 _September, 1942/Greenroof, 2303_

"In the end I was the one who forgot the person I became in Narnia."

The two brothers were sitting atop the hill called Aslan's How, looking down on the lingering devastation of the battle, and though both still wore their battle stained armour, neither seemed to care. Moments for quiet reflection were rare in the wake of battles, and Peter suspected that Edmund would have been content to sit there in silence until Susan appeared to scold them for wandering off. Ordinarily Peter would have let him, but there was far too much to say now—and far too little time to say it.

I've been an utter fool," Peter continued quietly, staring out over the twisted remains of the Telmarine catapults. Edmund didn't seem to see the need to contradict him, and a moment later he continued. "After everything that happened here the first time, I still forgot what was most important."

"Everyone does sometimes." Instead of the anger Peter knew he deserved to hear in his brother's voice there was a quiet understanding. "Well, except maybe Lucy." They both laughed at that, but Peter quickly became serious again—he was not willing to let Edmund keep him from saying what he knew was necessary.

 _Save it for later._ Well, it was later, and neither one of them could avoid what that meant. "Ed, I'm sorry." Somehow that didn't seem nearly good enough though, and he rushed on—desperate to at least attempt fixing what he had so nearly destroyed. "I've been an utter prat, especially to you, and you were brilliant. If it wasn't for you the White Witch would be back right now, and—well, you know."

Edmund sighed, and for the first time Peter saw a hint of the anger he deserved on his brother's face. "I didn't expect you to forget what it cost to defeat her the first time, but then, I suppose you did have it sorted."

Peter winced at Edmund's reference to his foolish words from before. More than anything he wished he could go back and make right his mistakes, but he couldn't—time did not run backwards, and no amount of wishing would undo the last year.

"I didn't realise what I was doing." The excuse sounded pathetic, even to his own ears, and he shook his head, trying to find a better way to say what he meant. "I know that doesn't excuse my actions." _Maybe nothing ever will._ "I know what it cost the first time, and I can guess what it cost this time. You shouldn't have had to face her again. "

"Am I never to be free of her?" For the first time Edmund turned to face him and Peter nearly wept at the weariness in his eyes. "Will she be there to taunt me everywhere I turn?"

"Never again," Peer promised firmly, though he knew he had no real power to back the decree with. "Never by my foolishness at least. I should have been strong enough to resist and destroyed her as soon as I realised what they were planning. I feel like a traitor; Aslan should never have made me king." The instant he spoke he regretted the words, but Edmund seemed to understand what he meant.

"I was a traitor once; do you think Aslan made a mistake when he crowned me king?" He wasn't angry, at least, he didn't sound angry, but that only made Peter feel worse.

"Of course not!"

"Aslan forgave me, you forgave me, and maybe someday I'll forgive myself—but none of that changes what happened. That's the thing about redemption, Pete; it doesn't undo your actions, it doesn't completely take away the guilt, but it does give you a second chance. Yes, you almost helped resurrect the White Witch, yes you were a complete arse to Caspian, yes you led a raid that allowed far too many Narnians to be slaughtered; but you also defeated Miraz, you showed mercy and wisdom in not killing him, and you led your army to victory in the name of Aslan. We all make mistakes, even High Kings."

Peter stared at him for a moment, not seeing his twelve-year-old brother—instead the Just King of Narnia's long lost Golden Age stared back at him, smiling slightly though his eyes were grave. Edmund had earned his title well, though currently Peter barely felt he deserved justice.

"When did you become so wise?" he asked, only half joking in an attempt to push away the lingering sense of guilt.

Edmund laughed and elbowed him lightly in the ribs, suddenly appearing much closer to his actual age—his English age, at any rate. "Apparently I'm still not wise enough to stop coming to your aid every time you're an idiot."

 _And if past experience is anything to judge by, you never will be._ "I never thanked you properly for helping me at the train station—you shouldn't have you know. You have always been there, and I, well, you know."

Edmund glared at him. "You aren't going to get all sentimental, are you? Susan is bad enough." He wrinkled his nose, looking vaguely disgusted, and Peter couldn't help wondering just what Susan had done this time.

"No," he conceded at last. "I'm not going to be sentimental, but somethings still need saying, and thank you is one of them." He paused, wondering just how much he could say without earning a cross shove from his brother. "And, I'm sorry. I never should have fought in the first place—a true king knows when to walk away." Guilt settled over him again when he as he remembered the disastrous Night Raid—he should have walked away then, while there had still been time.

Edmund's elbow connected with his ribs far less gently this time, and despite the chain mail he still wore Peter scowled and shifted away.

"Ow! Ed!" _Was I thinking how wise he was only moments ago?_ But Peter had long ago accepted the sometimes infuriating contradiction that was his younger brother.

Edmund looked not at all repentant. "Stop that! You can't go back and change it; what is it Aslan always says? We can never know what would have happened? At least now you have a chance to change what will happen."

"You mean when we go back to England?" Peter kept a wary eye on his brother's elbow, and was careful to stay just out of reach—he didn't particularly want any more bruises.

Edmund nodded, looking thoughtful. "You told me once that things didn't have to go back to being exactly as they were before; that's what I'm counting on now. You can choose to be High King Peter, even in England, and that doesn't mean picking fights with boys in train stations."

"I know. I will remember Ed, I promise." _Now I just have to apologise to Lucy, Susan, and Caspian._

Edmund grinned and pulled him to his feet. "Now stop moping, you great sap, and let's find something to eat. I'm starving!"

"When are you not starving?"

Edmund shook his head, still grinning, before he seemed to sober as he looked back over the battlefield. "You know, I've rather gotten used to having you hovering around."

"Thank you?"

Edmund glared at him, daring him to interrupt again. "What I was _trying_ to say is, well, I'm glad Miraz didn't win. I would have missed you." That was all the warning Peter got, before Edmund, who had so recently been scolding him for being sentimental, was hugging him. Peter, however, was far too wise to comment on that fact.

"Right," said Edmund, somewhat hoarsely a moment later. "I'm still starving." He turned to stomp off in the direction of the makeshift camp, stopping to call over his shoulder. "And, Peter, if you tell Susan I hugged you, I'll kill you myself."

Peter grinned. "She won't hear a word about it from me, little brother."

"Younger! How many times do I have to tell you, it's _younger_ brother!" Edmund seemed quite pleased at the chance to continue their longstanding argument.

Peter laughed and raised his hands in defeat. "As you say…little brother." At that point he decided it would be in the best interest of his health to run, and so he did—though his happily infuriated brother made quite a show of chasing after him, shouting dire threats he had no intention of carrying through with.

It felt good to be running past groups of familiar Creatures and breathing Narnian air. It wasn't quite alright—the past year had still happened—but it was better. Peter thought he understood now; it had never been his crown or status that made him a king—it had been his actions. His own actions had not been very kingly of late, but there was time. He could change. He must change, for he did not think he could bear the guilt of betraying the everything he held dear a second time.

 _I do understand now,_ he thought, as he dashed round a group of confused Dryads. _I understand why Edmund tries so hard, why he always feels it is his duty to protect us, and why he does everything in his power to be just in all things. He failed once, and I have too now. Never again._

He would be a king, he determined then, he would remember and hold on to who he had once been—even if he must return to a land that threatened to make him forget.

 **Hope the revisions helped.**

 **Cheers,**

 **A**


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